My Wilson
by pgrabia
Summary: House follows Wilson's advice to talk to Cuddy about the truth in spite of his fears. Follow-up to "My Folly". No intended character-bashing. HUDDY. Includes some Wilson ergo:title! Perhaps a little OOC ;


**My Wilson**

Disclaimer: House M.D., its characters, locations and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and the Fox Television Network. All Rights Reserved.

_A/N: _This is a little follow up to the previous story I wrote "My Folly". I left the first one up in the air so I thought I'd try to tie up loose ends but after finishing I'm not so sure I have. Oh well! It's a little schmaltzy, I admit, but I hope not too much so! I Hope it makes sense. No character bashing is intended. As always reviews are always appreciated!

* * *

My Wilson sits at the other end of the sofa he says looks like carrot-puke. I don't know what the problem is…what difference does the color make? He looks at me, a little pie-eyed from drinking the 'punch' at the birthday party he just came from. A confused smile is on his face as he stares at me.

"Which big mistake is this one?" he asks me jokingly. I have just finished telling him that I'm not doing O.K.—a huge admission for me—because I made the mistake of putting myself in the position where I've fallen for her again.

Her being Lisa Cuddy—my boss, my friend, my current heartache. There haven't been too many of those. I haven't had a lot of romantic relationships in my fifty years of life; in fact, only one ever became anything significant, and I lost her because I couldn't get my head out of my ass and forgive her. Truthfully, though, I still don't think she deserves my forgiveness for what she did to me. I still live with the painful reminder and I will until the day I die—or my leg gets lopped off—which ever happens to come first. Lisa was lost to me before we had a chance to turn 'she and I' into 'we'. If blame needs to be assigned it is all mine. It usually is.

I have worked very hard the past few months to put the feelings I have for her—have always had—back on the shelf to collect dust like I had for twenty years, before I thought there was even the slightest possibility that she and I could be together. She is happy with another man who can provide her and her baby daughter something that in the past I never could have—responsibility, stability, commitment. I was married to a scornful bitch that made it impossible for me to be there for Lisa. It wasn't until I divorced myself from that wretched lover—Vicodin—that I could learn to be the man a woman like her deserved. I'm still not completely there yet and I doubt that I will ever be truly good enough, but I've come a long way. Too bad it's too little, too late. After having finally convinced myself that I was moving on from her, I betrayed myself. Now I need my best friend to help me figure out what to do.

I look at him, a little hurt by Wilson's comment. I try to remind myself that he has been drinking and that I have probably earned that statement—but still I am disappointed by his words. I hesitate. Perhaps I shouldn't continue until he's completely sober. I really need to talk to him now, though. I take a risk and venture forward.

"It's Cuddy," I tell him simply. I see the expression on his face change. The simper changes to a look of concern again and he seems to sober up immediately.

"What happened?" he asks me, frowning his bushy eyebrows together, his chocolate brown eyes piercing through me now. I sigh quietly. Talking about my feelings is never easy for me but it is especially hard when it comes to Lisa Cuddy. No other person knows this better than my best friend sitting with me right now.

"I let myself get too close today," I answer quietly, staring at a spot of icing on Wilson's otherwise impeccably clean dress shirt. How did he manage that after a long work day? "I saw Cuddy was in trouble and I wanted to help."

"You mean with the insurance company?" my friend the oncologist asks to clarify. "Didn't she have that whole thing worked out and under control from the start?"

"Hardly," I tell him and then relate how she had tried to bluff the other side's chief negotiator and had nearly lost everything—including her job—until at the last minute the insurance company gave in and gave her what she wanted. "At one point she went to hide in her car so no one could see her doubting herself, self-destructing," I said. "I couldn't resist going to her. She looked almost as vulnerable as she did when she lost Joy. I went to her car and sat with her for a while. I didn't have any answers for her…I was just there for her. It was stupid, I know. Now I can't get her out of my head again."

Wilson sighs tiredly. This is the same old song that he has heard me sing before. I know that part of him feels guilty for encouraging me to pursue her to begin with and thus he has been trying to help me through her loss ever since I found out about Lucas and her. I know he's frustrated with me. I'm frustrated with me, too.

"Did anything about your feelings for her come up in your conversation?" he asks me. "Did she say anything that led you to believe that there was still a spark of hope for the two of you?"

I shake my head. "No," I answer. "She didn't say or do anything to lead me on, and I didn't go there for any other reason than to be a friend."

He gives me that knowing smirk. "I don't know if it's possible for you to ever be able to make that distinction in your heart again, House." He informs me almost smugly. I hate it when he acts smugly, especially when he's right.

"So what do you suggest I do?" I demand defensively. "She's also my boss—I have to work around her every day. What should I do—write her off as a friend? Do I avoid her like the plague and hope she somehow reads my mind and knows that I'm doing it for the good of everyone involved?"

My best friend's smugness dissipates somewhat, much to my relief. He shakes his head at me.

"No, that's definitely not the solution," he tells me. He's silent again for a minute or two as he thinks through my problem. I see when an idea comes to him before he speaks. "If you can't get rid of your feelings for her, then I can only see two possible solutions."

I sit quietly, waiting for him to continue to tell me what those two solutions are but he doesn't. He just sits there staring at me expectantly, frustrating me to the point of distraction.

"Well?" I say sharply. "I'm not telepathic—you're going to have to tell me what they are!"

That seems to jolt him out of his reverie. "Oh, right! Sorry!" he apologizes. "Well, as I see it, you can go to her tomorrow and tell her exactly how you feel—what you've just told me—and demand a response from her, be it positive or negative. At least then you will be left with absolutely no doubt about how she feels about you which might make your next move clearer for you."

I look at him and screw up my face. I don't like that idea at all. Talking to Cuddy about this kind of thing never resolves anything. If anything it creates even more unanswered questions to deal with.

"I hope your second idea is better than your first," I tell him, irritated, "because that idea sucks the big one!"

Wilson gives me that sheepish look he gets when he knows that what he is about to tell me is going to meet with scorn and resistance. He says, "You make a clean break from her. Quit, find a job somewhere else where you won't have to see her everyday and be reminded of your feelings."

I stare at him in disbelief. Did he hear what he just said? Quit PPTH and the department developed specifically for me? Go hunting for another job God only knows where? It's not like there is a huge demand in the profession for a misanthropic drug addict with a hate on for authority and stupid rules? I'd probably end up in some country hospital somewhere in Nebraska treating gout and yeast infections or piecing together body parts after a farm accident involving tractors or augers or such damned thing! It would also mean the very real possibility of having to leave Wilson behind and start a new life and career totally alone. One of my biggest nightmares is that very scenario. I know that there is no way I can live this life sanely and sober without him in my life. Unless he quits and comes with me, there is no way I will ever choose that option. It makes his first suggestion look positively brilliant in comparison.

"That's all you've got?" I ask him incredulously. "That's seriously the only options you can think of? Shoot myself in the heart or shoot myself in the head? Thanks, but I think I'll look for a second opinion!"

He sighs, shaking his head. Wilson rubs the back of his neck; he does that when he's frustrated or downright pissed. "What is wrong with going to Cuddy and talking to her?" he demands angrily. "The two of you have yet to sit down and talk about what happened at the medical convention. She's been living in denial of the fact that you were genuinely hurt by what happened and you're avoiding confronting her with the truth because that would mean baring your soul and making yourself vulnerable to what she might tell you. The sooner the two of you sit down and discuss this like adults—without Lucas and me as an audience—the sooner you'll be able to move on. There, that's what I think! You asked me and I've told you—take it or leave it, I don't care! I'm tired and I'm going to bed."

Wilson gets up from the sofa and heads towards his bedroom. Just before he leaves the room I call after him.

"Wilson," I say and he turns around to look at me skeptically.

"What, House?" he asks me with a tone of resignation.

I hesitate just a moment, long enough to frustrate him and watch him turn around and take a step away. Then I say quickly, "So, what do you think--the hospital? Here? Or would neutral territory be best?"

My best friend turns back to me and gives me that look of his that says, 'Finally you're listening to the voice of reason!' He walks back to the sofa and sits again.

"I think neutral territory might be the best," he tells me. "Somewhere public but where you can find enough privacy to talk without anyone able to listen in…."

* * *

Saturday morning I sit on a park bench, staring at two gulls fighting over the French fry I throw at them. I pop a couple of said fries into my mouth with sadistic pleasure. _Stupid birds,_ I think. They are almost as bad as stupid humans when it comes to sharing the wealth. It's a warm February day; the sky is clear and the air is crisp. Sunshine warms the top of my head and my shoulders and the lack of any appreciable wind makes it feel positively balmy—for Princeton, that is. Nice town, not always nice weather.

I check my watch impatiently but the fact is she isn't late yet, I'm just too early. Cuddy has agreed to meet with me, alone, to talk. I suspect she knows what the subject will be; she was hesitant at first to meet one on one, but when I insisted it had to be this way, she relented. I look at my container of fries and do the unthinkable—I throw what remains of them—almost half of the original quantity—to the birds. My stomach is flipping from nervousness and I just can't choke anymore down. As it is I wonder if I will be able to keep down the ones I managed to eat. A huge part of me wants to get up and limp away before she arrives and sees me. Better to show her up than face the truth. Denial is so much easier.

"What are you trying to do?" a voice—_her _voice—says from behind me, startling the hell out of me. She walks around the bench and sits next to me at the other end—a safe two-foot buffer zone between us. She has a smirk on her lovely face. "Give them a heart attack from all that fat?" she finishes.

I can't help but smile back at her, marveling at how beautiful she looks today. She is wearing her hair pulled back casually from her face by two silver barrettes. She is wearing a minimal amount of make-up, a lot less than she does around the hospital, and I like it better. I think she hides a lot of her beauty under all that foundation and powder. She looks sexiest when she wears the natural look; she wears it very, very well. She's casually dressed in a red blouse and slim-fitting blue jeans that don't do anything to hide her every perfect curve from me.

_Whoa, boy!_ I tell myself silently. _Rein yourself in! Don't set yourself up for a whopping hurt! _Of course I know it's already too late for that. I was already primed for that before I got out of bed this morning.

"I'm doing my part in reducing their overpopulation," I quip. "French fries—the next great soft-kill weapon!"

She shakes her head at me in that disapproving yet amused way she has--just another part of the enigma that is Lisa Cuddy. Maybe that's what I find the most fascinating about her—she's a puzzle I have yet to solve.

"The overpopulation problem is with pigeons," she informs me, "not gulls."

"Oops," I reply, shrugging. "In every war there are collateral casualties."

Cuddy chuckles softly, but her amusement is short lived. She looks at me with those incredible brocade blue eyes and they are sad. This is just as hard on her as it is on me and for some reason that is comforting. Perhaps it's another sadistic aspect of my personality. Maybe misery really does love company.

"I don't have a lot of time, House," she tells me softly. "Lucas, Rachel and I are going to my sister's this afternoon. I'm here. What is it that you want to talk about?"

I wish she hadn't mentioned his name. I want to leave him as far out of this time with her as I can. I try not to let her see how much her use of his name hurts me.

I sigh, looking at my hands, trying to find the right words and failing. I am no good at this kind of thing. I need a Cyrano de Bergerac to help me with this Roxanne.

"I need to talk about…you and me," I tell her; I was going to use the word 'us' but at the last moment decided to use 'you and me' instead. There is no 'us' to talk about.

"What about you and me?" she asks and I look at her face to see if she is toying with me. I see nothing but resignation.

I shrug and look away from her again. I just can't bring myself to look at her and talk at the same time.

"We never properly talked about what happened…at the medical convention," I tell her, trying to hide the anxiety that I'm experiencing.

"Sure we did," Cuddy argues mildly. "We sat there at the table and…talked."

I force myself to look at her. "Lisa," I say with meaning, "You , Lucas, Wilson and I sat around that table saying nothing. There was too much discomfort and too many ears. We need to talk about this privately, just the two of us--with no one we have to appease or impress listening in."

She looks at me, her face unreadable, for a long time. She blinks and then she speaks, "I thought we were good, that everything that had to be said was said. Why are you dragging this up all over again?"

I take a deep breath. "I guess I'm not good with it. I still think there is a lot left to say."

Now she begins to look annoyed, defensive. I know this isn't a good sign but I can't turn back now.

"Maybe you have a lot left to say," Cuddy tells me, her eyes piercing me, "but I've already said what I have to say. I think I've made it plain where I stand on this, House. There is no 'us'. There never has been and there never will be."

_Okay_, I think, _that hurts._ I feel the temptation to say 'Yeah, you're right, sorry for wasting your time', but I resist it. I can't avoid this any longer and hope that it just goes away on its own…because it won't. If she is unwilling to talk, then she will listen. I came here to deal with this and I'm not walking away until I do.

"_I _have something left to say," I tell her, feeling a little annoyed. What, does she think this situation is settled just because she says so, and what I think and feel are meaningless? "I need to say it, and you are going to listen and when I'm finished you are welcome to tell me to go to hell and walk away—but you're going to hear me out first!"

She looks at me with amazement. It has been a long time since I have stood up for myself this way and she has no idea what to do with it. Silence is good, I decide. She can shut up and listen!

My anger gives me courage and I meet and hold her gaze now. "I told you at the dance how I really feel about you…you know that's incredibly hard for me to do. But you just walked away and left me standing there like an idiot. I felt like somebody had just hit me with a semi trailer. The next day I tried to show you just how serious I am about changing and offer to watch Rachel for you to make it possible for you to attend the sessions—but instead of being honest with me about your relationship with Lucas you lie about it right up to the moment I find him in your suite. It's not until I catch you red handed that you come clean. Not only did I feel like the world's biggest chump but I felt my…heart…" My voice trails off. I can't actually say those words, so I move on. "Then you add salt to my wounds by insisting I sit in that damned restaurant with _him_ and listen to him parrot back to me one of the most painful and humiliating moments of my life which you had no trouble telling him about in detail. I know it was a psychotic delusion, Lisa, but to me it was more than just a dream that we made love—it was real. All of the emotion, all of the intimacy—and I had to sit there and be mocked about it by him! Did you think that was funny? Was it a blast for you to humiliate me like that?"

I stop to take a breath, amazed that I have found the courage to say so much; she uses it as an opportunity to protest, "I never considered it to be something to make fun of, House, and I didn't know he was going to bring up what I told him right there and then--!"

"But he did," I stress, cutting her off. It isn't debate time yet. I sigh loudly, trying to gather my thoughts before she starts to talk again. "I've never stopped caring about you. Not since that one night we had together at Michigan. I never said anything about it to you when you hired me because I figured for you it was ancient history and you were too pissed about it to even want to revisit it. I buried it. I met Stacy and tried to forget about you and focus on her. When that crashed and burned, I wasn't in anyplace to unbury those feelings and deal with them and by the time I could I was a die-hard addict with my life spiraling out of control. I knew there was no way I deserved you like that, so I kept my feelings for you buried.

"Then I screw up with Amber and Wilson…" I pause, feeling overwhelmed by the emotions I still feel surrounding that bus crash and Amber's death and the look of disgust I saw on Wilson's face when I woke from my coma and he was on the other side of the glass, staring at me. I force myself to keep talking. "When I woke up from the coma," I continue, feeling physically sick now, "and I saw you there at my bedside…something clicked for me. Those feelings got loose and I started to think that perhaps you might have feelings for me…that maybe there was a chance. I was still an addict. I was terrified of being hurt all over again and trying to deny how I felt because it was safer…but Wilson kept pushing me to pursue you and I did…I let myself hope. You didn't exactly seem to mind my advances either. When you trusted me with your fertility treatments…when that fell through and you allowed me to comfort you…when your hopes of motherhood with Joy failed…and the kiss."

"Yes," Cuddy says coldly, but I hear an edge of hurt to her voice. "That kiss…and then you just walked away without a word, just like you did twenty years before. What was I supposed to do with that, House? Who felt like the chump there? Me, that's who. That reminded me why I couldn't pursue any feelings I have--had—because I couldn't trust you to stick around and be there for me when I needed you…I never could."

I want her to understand that I still regret walking out on her that night; I need her to understand that I was overwhelmed by the depth of my emotions and I was afraid that whatever would have followed if I had stayed would have ended up hurting both of us in the end—but I can't find the words to express it the way I want to.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, feeling ashamed. She truly has no idea just how sorry I am for that. "I…I was afraid of starting something I couldn't finish. I didn't want to disappoint you or me again. I thought I made it clear to you how much that kiss meant to me…obviously I hadn't. Then everything started falling apart. I lost my mind…I knew I wasn't worthy of you.

"What kept me going in Mayfield was the hope that if it worked that maybe…I could become what you needed me to be. I was too late. I know that. I just couldn't give up."

I glance at her face. She is staring at me with thin lips and stony countenance but her eyes are misty. Somewhere I have touched something in her. I wish it to be enough, but I don't believe it is. My heart is in my throat…no, that's not true. It's actually on my sleeve, but I don't think she sees it.

"Why not?" she asks me harshly. "What more do I have to say? Why can't you just let me go?"

I lower my head. I know that the only answer to her question is the one that will end up hurting me the most if I tell her. I _have_ to tell her. It all ends—or begins—today.

Swallowing hard I raise my head and look deeply into her eyes, eyes that bewitch me every time I see them. Somehow, from somewhere, I find my voice.

"Because…I'm in love with you."

My words hang in the air between us. My soul is laid bare before her. Whatever she says or does next will impact the path of the rest of my life. Cuddy simply stares at me, her face expressionless, but there is one twitch, one tiny little tick, in the corner of her eye that betrays her; she is not completely indifferent to my words. What her reaction is I don't know and waiting for her to say something seems to be taking a thousand years. _Please, Lisa,_ I think desperately. _Please say something! I need to know!_

My next action is impulsive, stupid. I slide over to her, grab her, pull her to me and press my lips to her. I kiss her gently but passionately. I know this may be the last kiss I may ever share with her and I want her to feel how much I love her! At first she resists me but that only lasts a moment before she relaxes in my arms and her lips soften beginning to search out mine. I touch my tongue to her lip and she opens her mouth to me. I plunge my tongue into her mouth. I hear a soft moan and her tongue begins to play with mine. I kiss her her harder now, more fervently, more hungrily.

Suddenly she pushes me away and slaps me hard across the face before I can react. I am so caught off guard that I don't even feel her make contact. Her expression is angry.

"Go to hell." She tells me coldly.

I simply stare at her. I imagine I've heard her wrong—but I haven't. She was just kissing me, returning my passion—I know it. I was not imagining it! There is no doubt that she meant all three words. I feet the universe begin to melt around me. _So this is what it feels like to die, _I think.

Lisa turns around and runs away as quickly as her feet will carry her—and she takes my heart with her. I watch her reach her car where she parked it on the street and climb into the passenger seat. It is then that I notice that she did not come alone after all. I watch _him_ lean over and kiss her cheek; she turns her head away from him, looking out her window. The car drives away with my life.

I sit there, unable to think, unable to move. I am completely, utterly a vacuum. I don't pay attention to how much time passes with me just sitting there, a stone. Time is meaningless now; time doesn't matter in the grave.

Eventually I stand up and take out my cell phone, absently pressing two buttons. Like an automaton I raise the phone to my ear. I don't hear the ringing.

My best friend answers with a simple, "Yes?"

"I'm done," I tell him and am surprised by the sound of my own voice. "I'm going to walk."

My Wilson asks me if I'm okay, insists that he is going to pick me up, tells me to stay put. I hang up.

I don't know where I am going or when I'll know when I'm there. My cane and I simply begin to limp without direction. It really doesn't matter where I go. I simply don't care.


End file.
